


Hurricane Harry

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 14:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10515381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “I’m not saying it’s pathetic, Jesus, Evan, do you seriously think I’m that big an asshole?”“No,” Evan says, but his voice is still small, soft, and he clearly doesn’t mean it, which — really hurts, actually.“Well I’m not,” Harry says. “You could just do better, is all I’m saying.”





	

They go back on the road before Harry has a chance to beg management to change the room assignments. It slipped his mind, he guesses. Whoops.

“Don’t look at me like that, Beau,” Harry says as he packs. “I forgot.”

Beau continues to look at him unblinkingly. Harry knows it’s just because he knows Harry packing means that he’s going to Siobhan’s, but he feels judged anyway. 

“You like Siobhan,” Harry says the next morning, when Beau refuses to come to the door. “Come on, bud, don’t make me feel like a bad dog dad.”

It takes a treat and a lot of wheedling, but Beau finally allows himself to be transported, and Harry isn’t even late to the airport because he always factors Beau wrangling into his schedule.

Connelly’s already there, sitting with Victor and Berg. Harry’s been sitting with Patty since Val left, both on the plane and before, because he’s pretty chill and usually just naps. Dude can sleep anywhere. Patty’s not there yet, though, so he makes his way over to Connelly. Which is a shit excuse, because Harry’s always there before Patty, and he wasn’t exactly running over to Connelly before, but Harry will use it anyway, just so he can pretend he still has some self-control. 

“Hi Harry,” Connelly says, greeting him with that ever present smile, and Harry’s traitor fucking heart pathetically skips a beat. “How’s Beau?”

Oh good, now Connelly’s found out his _weaknesses_ too. 

“It’s too early for small-talk, Evan,” Victor groans. Harry’s pretty sure if he said it Connelly would be all frowning and hurt looking, but his smile doesn’t dim at all.

“Drink your coffee, Vic,” Connelly says, then, “Victor’s not really a morning person.”

“Understatement,” Berg murmurs, and Victor elbows him.

“Beau’s good,” Harry says. “Um. Didn’t want me to leave, but.”

“Too early,” Victor moans loudly, and Harry can see Roman looking over at them, though he doubts it was Victor that drew his attention. Roman’s been, well — looking at Connelly, but ‘looking’ really doesn’t begin to cover it. Harry needs a sleazier word. Leering isn’t good enough, but he guesses it could work as a placeholder until he thinks of something better.

Harry stares Roman down, and Roman glances away like he’s embarrassed. Which is good, because he should be, staring at Connelly like he’s fucking —

_Hypocrite_ , Annie says, singsong in his head, and Harry mentally gives her the finger and steels himself for a long fucking week.

*

The trip starts off on the right foot. Like, hockey-wise, Harry means, since they immediately snatch up two points. Harry can’t exactly speak for the rest of it. They don’t have a game until the day after tomorrow, which means drinks. Drinks in the proximity of Connelly are just asking for trouble, considering the last time Harry grabbed drinks with him he found himself going from ‘fucked up about Connelly’ to like, ‘royally, epically fucked up about Connelly’, and he didn’t have to go _sleep in the same room with him_ after, and yet, here he is, getting more drinks with Connelly. Harry doesn’t know what he did to deserve this.

Honestly, he should just beg off and go back to their room, or go sit with Patty or hell, Victor, or do literally anything other than what he is doing, which is sticking close to Connelly, taking the spot next to him at the bar, close enough that their arms are brushing and his face is already feeling hot. This is stupid. Harry’s stupid. He has no idea how to stop being stupid — or he does, but he doesn’t know how to make himself actually _do_ the smart thing instead of giving in the stupid thing. This has been a running theme in his life, though he doesn’t think it’s ever been quite this bad.

Roman appears like he’s been summoned as soon as Harry thinks that, a reminder that things could always be worse. “Want me to buy you a drink?” he asks, fingers brushing Connelly’s shoulder, casually possessive, and Harry swallows, gritting his teeth and waiting for Connelly to take Roman up on it, abandon Harry to go off with him or give Harry a pointed look like ‘go somewhere else, I have to inexplicably fawn over this ridiculous dude now’.

“It’s okay,” Connelly says. “If they ID me I’ll just get a pop, but they haven’t really, lately.”

“Well, let me know,” Roman says, which makes no sense and is so obvious Harry would feel sorry for him, except Connelly somehow doesn’t notice the whole thirsty as _fuck_ vibe he’s giving off and also Harry’s Roman feelings are currently limited to ‘viciously satisfied whenever Connelly doesn’t fall at his feet’, which is another thing that’s stupid and awful about this and another thing Harry has no idea how to change.

“I can order for us,” Harry offers after Roman goes off to lick his wounds or sulk or whatever. He’s trying not to be all proud that Connelly chose to stick with him, trying not to read anything into it, but, and here’s the theme of the night and also Harry’s whole entire life lately: he has no idea how to stop feeling stupid feelings.

“Seriously, I don’t mind,” Connelly says. 

Connelly doesn’t even get IDed in the end, though Harry does, which is _bullshit_. Harry’s been legal for three fucking years, Connelly’s still almost a year away from it, and _Harry_ gets IDed? This is height bias. 

“What the fuck,” Harry says, after the bartender’s looked over his ID and gone off to get their beers. “Do I look under twenty-one to you?”

“He’s just being meticulous,” Connelly says.

“Big word from the dude who’s underage,” Harry says.

“Shh,” Connelly says.

“Thought you were okay with soda,” Harry says.

“As a backup,” Connelly says.

“Never pegged you as a rulebreaker, Connelly,” Harry says, and Connelly shrugs and smiles, a smile Harry can’t help but return.

“You can call me Connie, you know,” Connelly says after they’ve gotten their beers.

“I’ve tried? But it’s weird,” Harry says, and when Connelly frowns, “Not like that, I just had a great aunt with that name and she was straight up evil, so.”

“Your great aunt was evil,” Connelly says, sounding skeptical.

“She seriously was,” Harry says. “She told my sister she was going to hell after she came out and cut her out of the will.” Not any of the rest of them it turned out when the bitch died, and Harry felt like shit about taking that false pretenses money, money he got just because he wasn’t brave like Annie, and he was lucky enough that people saw he had a girlfriend and just assumed. Annie told him not to worry about it, but he bought her a nice watch with it before putting the rest into savings. “Name’s kind of permanently tainted for me.”

“Okay, wow,” Connelly says. “Um. What about Evan, then?”

“Huh?” Harry asks.

“It’s just — you’re the only guy who calls me Connelly, and we share a room and everything, and it feels —” Connelly shrugs, ducking his head.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Evan.”

Evan’s still got his head down, but Harry can see him start to smile. “Thanks, Harry,” he says.

“It’s not even a thing,” Harry says. 

“So your great aunt —” Evan says, and man, giving two seconds of the time of day to that hateful old bigot is two too many, so a subject change is more than overdue. 

“I still can’t get over that goal of yours,” Harry says, the part of him that’s reluctant to throw compliments people’s way overtaken by the fact that was an objectively awesome play — he might admittedly be biased in Evan’s favor right now, but Sportscenter isn’t, and that goal making the plays of the week is a sign Harry’s not imagining how great it was — and, more ridiculously, the way Evan lights up after he says it, like he said something amazing instead of just giving a man his due.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Evan says.

“No, seriously,” Harry says, and that somehow leads to Evan diagramming the play with coasters as the net markers and his fingers recreating the play, but Harry can’t actually complain, because Evan’s smiling, clearly happy to do it, and it’s not actually a burden watching the way his hands move, the way it gets him animated. Evan’s shy, but he doesn’t stay shy when it’s something that interests him, can go on and on about the most ridiculous stuff, but Harry’s interested in hockey, obviously, and lately he’s always been interested in him, so he’s pretty sure if Evan was giving a spiel on gluten Harry would still be hanging on his every word. 

Which is, yeah, kind of pathetic, but not as pathetic as the fact that Roman’s looking at them again, like if he makes enough sustained eye contact with Evan he’ll be summoned over. Except Evan’s not looking at him, Evan’s looking at the bar surface he’s using as the ice and Evan’s looking at Harry, and it’s probably really petty to be happy about that, but Harry doesn’t give a shit. He’s happy about it.

Of course the moment Harry thinks that, Evan glances over at Roman’s table, thankfully after he’s quit looking and turned to look at Fitzy. Harry doesn’t know if it’s just crazy timing that Evan never seems to catch onto the fact that Roman’s been looking at him like he’s fucking catnip, or if Evan’s just — Harry hesitates to say stupid, maybe oblivious, because he’s decently savvy at picking up things that don’t directly relate to him. Harry would judge him for not noticing, but fuck, Harry didn’t even realize he had a thing for him until Annie _pointed it out to him_ , so he’s the last person in the world who could throw stones. Being oblivious is the dream right now.

Evan probably wouldn’t agree, considering that for over a year he’s held a torch for Roman so big Harry’s amazed he hasn’t burned himself with it. Honestly, _he’s_ been feeling kind of burned by it lately. And yeah, he knows that’s totally selfish, but it’s not exactly something he can change about himself. Every time Evan’s looking Roman’s way sucks, every time Roman’s looking Evan’s way Harry’s afraid Evan’s going to notice. Not that Harry actually means to do anything about his feelings, just — it sucks, okay?

“I don’t get how you’re still hung up on Roman,” Harry says, because his dumb mouth always seems to work faster than his self-control.

Evan flushes basically on cue, and lately Harry can’t help but like that, but at the moment, he’s pretty sure he hates it.

“Like, man, the dude’s—” Harry says.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Evan interrupts quietly, which is probably the Connelly equivalent of telling him to fucking drop it.

“Okay,” Harry says, then to get that look off Evan’s face, “Show me the goal again?”

Evan smiles at him, small, and does.

*

Harry’s a beer and a half in to Evan’s two — he’s learned from last time, and what he learned is to nurse his damn beer — when Evan starts looking bagged. “You didn’t play _that_ many minutes,” Harry says, then internally winces at how that sounds.

Thankfully Evan doesn’t seem to take it personally. “I’m weirdly tired this week,” he says. “I don’t know.”

“Growth spurts are tiring,” Harry says.

“I think I’m done?” Evan says. “I’ve been 6’5” since I was eighteen, so—”

“It was a joke,” Harry says. “I mean, what with the whole uh, thing you did this summer, all that, uh, growing…out —” Harry wants to shove his entire hand in his mouth so he stops making words. “Maybe we should head back?”

“You’re not done your beer,” Evan says. “I can head back alone, you don’t need to come.”

“It’s cool,” Harry says. “Someone needs to protect you on the walk back.”

Harry waits for Evan to point out he’s got half a foot and a whole lot of pounds on Harry, that Harry couldn’t even beat _Fitzy_ at bench pressing, let alone manage anywhere near Evan’s record, but Evan just smiles and says, “Thanks,” because Evan is a nice dude, unlike the critical little voice in Harry’s head. 

“Or you protect me, more likely,” Harry admits, when they get outside.

“I’m sure you could protect me,” Evan says, and from anyone else it’d sound sarcastic or condescending, but not from him.

_Why are you like this?_ Harry thinks desperately at him, because if he would just stop being so _this_ Harry could maybe get his defenses back up, but the way it’s going right now he’s going to explode into little pieces all over their room the next time Evan smiles or says something sweet, so, like, probably the minute they get in the damn door.

They get in the door, and Evan doesn’t smile or say something sweet or anything, but that’s because Harry’s stupid mouth opens and brings up, like, literally the very last thing he wants to talk about. “But seriously, why _Roman_?”

Shut up, shut up, shut _up_. 

“I don’t get it,” Harry says, and his voice sounds bitchy and jealous to his own ears, so he can’t even imagine how it must sound to Evan. There’s oblivious and there’s oblivious, and Harry’s sticking his hand in the fire under the assumption that the fire is too dumb to notice there’s something to burn, and too nice to burn if it did notice. Fuck, Harry’s sticking his _face_ in the fire and _yelling at it_. “Like dude, it’s been a fucking year now, how long can you —”

“Harry,” Evan says, which is a blaring ‘shut the fuck up’ that Harry gets, he totally gets, and yet he _keeps talking_.

“— still be all starry-eyed over a dude who had us literally play like, secret agents last year, what is he, six? Like how do you keep —”

“Can you stop mocking me, please?” Evan asks, very quietly.

“I’m not — I’m not mocking you,” Harry says. “Why would I be—”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Evan asks. “I get it, you think it’s pathetic —”

“When did I say that?” Harry interrupts. “I never said it’s pathetic, Jesus, Evan, do you seriously think I’m that big an asshole?”

“No,” Evan says, but his voice is still small, soft, and he clearly doesn’t mean it, which — really hurts, actually.

“Well I’m not,” Harry says. “You could just do better, is all I was trying to say. Apparently really badly.”

Evan’s mouth tips up a little, just at the edge. If it was someone else Harry would call it a smile, but considering how easily Evan does smile, that probably isn’t the right word.

Harry’s an asshole. He didn’t mean to be, but that seems to be when it hits the hardest. Hurricane Harry. Mouth tries to take him out, and ends up taking Evan out as collateral damage instead.

Harry would usually rather eat glass than actually put the words ‘I’m’ and ‘sorry’ together, but Evan’s made himself small again, at least as small as he can, and he looks miserable, and Harry should apologize. Harry’s going to apologize.

“You could do better,” Harry says instead.

“You said that already,” Evan says, mouth doing that quirk at the edges, that not smile, and Harry’s so fucking messed up over him it makes something in his stomach twist, tie itself into miserable knots.

“Can I kiss you?” Harry hears himself asking before he was even aware he was thinking it, beyond the _wanting_ to, and Evan’s head jerks toward him, eyes wide.

“Shit, I’m sorry, you can—” Harry gets out, before Evan says, “Okay.”

“—completely ignore me,” Harry finishes, then. “Wait, okay?”

“Yeah,” Evan says, then sits down on the edge of Harry’s bed, in what’s either like, invitation or him being shocked by himself. _Harry_ ’s pretty shocked by him right now. Like, his own mouth running away with him, non-story, but Evan sitting there just _waiting_ is —

Evan sitting down makes it easier. Like, logistically, since he’s half a foot taller than Harry, but also just…easier in general, easier to step forward, into his space, Evan looking up at him for once, before his eyes cut away.

Harry kind of wants to launch himself at him mouth first, but Evan looks so…Harry doesn’t want to say innocent because it makes him feel skeevy, but it’s the only word he can think of. Whatever he looks like, something in him says ‘slow’ in response, and he listens to it, leaning down to brush his mouth against Evan’s instead of crashing into it. Evan exhales against his lips, surprised, like he didn’t actually expect Harry to do it, and of course that ends up being what motivates Harry to deepen the kiss, some competitive drive kicking up in him, _you didn’t think I’d follow through with it? You’re going to see how much I follow through_.

Evan’s…tentative, Harry guesses would be the word, but he isn’t passive past the first moment of surprise, mouth opening under Harry’s, hand coming up to cradle the back of Harry’s head, fingers carding through Harry’s short hair in a way that’s simultaneously relaxing and like, the exact opposite of that, because everything’s wired to his dick right now, the slick slide of tongues and Evan’s touch and the way Evan looks when Harry pulls back the first time, mouth wet and eyes closed, the way Evan follows his mouth, blind and instinctive, and Harry can’t help diving back in then because all Harry wants is to give him what he wants.

They get horizontal at some point, and Harry doesn’t know how that happened but he’s almost completely sure he was responsible for it. It’s not like about to get down and dirty horizontal though, just closer, Evan’s long legs bracketing Harry’s thigh, Evan’s heartbeat hard and fast under Harry’s hand, braced against his chest.

They kiss for — awhile. Harry doesn’t know how long. Harry hasn’t made out with someone like this since college. Except this isn’t like it was when Harry was in college, kissing right up until it seemed safe to stick your hand down the guy’s pants. Not that Harry doesn’t want to stick his hand down Evan’s pants, because if he said that his nose would grow the length of his dick, but Evan’s definitely not making his way towards Harry’s pants, and Harry’s kind of okay with that?

That’s a lie too, but not the kind that would make Harry go all Pinocchio. Because Harry’s more than okay with that, right now, the way their mouths brush, kiss after kiss until Harry’s mouth is sore and sensitive from the scratch of Evan’s stubble, and he couldn’t begin to count how many times Evan’s lips have touched his.

Evan’s hard against his thigh, it’s obvious in the kind of way that has Harry wondering what he’s packing down there, if that had the whole summer growth spurt too, even if that makes about zero sense. He could find out, he’s pretty sure if he did something Evan would let him, but there’s still something tentative about his touch, from his lips on Harry’s to the hand he has curled around the back of Harry’s neck, the other balling up the sleeve of Harry’s shirt, and Harry doesn’t want to do anything he’s not sure Evan’s okay with, just because he’d say okay.

It’s all Evan’s show, here. Harry’s willing to follow wherever he leads, and even if that isn’t quite _anywhere_ in the end, that’s okay. The kisses wind down instead of up, slowing and gentling until they’re just occasional soft brushes between sharing breath, and Evan’s eyes are starting to droop, though they open again when Harry leans forward to kiss the crest of his cheek, the hinge of his jaw.

“I should go to my bed,” Evan says softly.

“You don’t have to,” Harry says.

“No?” Evan asks.

Harry shakes his head.

“You’re okay if we just sleep?” Evan asks hesitantly.

“You said you’ve been tired, so,” Harry says.

“So, yes?” Evan says.

“So yes,” Harry confirms.

“Okay,” Evan says, and his smile’s small, but from as close as Harry is, it’s blinding.

“Maybe not in your suit, though,” Harry says, and Evan gets up with this drowsy lag Harry’s trying and failing not to find completely endearing, hesitating in front of his suitcase before going to change into his pajamas in the bathroom, which Harry can’t _help_ but find endearing. Harry usually just sleeps in his underwear, but he also usually sleeps alone, so he takes a cue from Evan and changes into a t-shirt and sweats, is under the covers when Evan gets out of the bathroom,

“You want to hit the lights?” Harry asks. Evan does, so it’s more a shadow than a person hesitating once again at the foot of the bed.

“You don’t have to,” Harry says. “You can totally sleep in your own bed, I didn’t mean to pressure you or anything.”

“You’re not,” Evan says, and crawls under the covers beside him.

There’s light filtering through the window, just enough that Harry can read Evan’s expression, though he’s not sure he understands it, this solemn serious face regarding him. Harry can’t handle the scrutiny, so he leans forward, lips brushing Evan’s again, means for it just to be like, a kiss goodnight, but it lingers until Evan’s gone soft and sleepy again.

He falls asleep crazy fast, a trait Harry would usually be envious of, though he doesn’t mind it right now, and he’s pretty sure he’d be having trouble sleeping tonight even if that wasn’t the norm for him, between the fact he’s mentally willing his erection down so he doesn’t wake Evan up going to the bathroom, and the fact he’s just kind of — a lot just happened. 

He ends up watching Evan, can’t help himself. Evan’s eyelashes are golden blond, slightly darker than his hair, long enough that they brush his cheeks, which are scattered with light freckles Harry’s never noticed, probably because he’s never been as close as he is now, close enough that when Evan exhales it’s warm against Harry’s lips. Harry shuts his eyes after a moment, because he feels like a creeper, turns over to resist temptation to continue to be one. He tucks himself back into the broad warmth of Evan’s chest, feeling stupidly, overwhelmingly happy. It’s not a feeling he’s accustomed to, or one he tends to trust, but he’ll be suspicious of it in the morning, because he wants to hold onto it right now.


End file.
